All that we did, all that we said or sang must come from contact with the soil.

When we have blamed the wind we can blame love.

The night can sweat with terror as before We pieced our thoughts into philosophy, And planned to bring the world under a rule, Who are but weasels fighting in a hole.

The brawling of a sparrow in the eaves The brilliant moon and all the milky sky And all that famous harmony of leaves Had blotted out man's image and his cry.

One often hears of a horse that shivers with terror, or of a dog that howls at something a mans eyes cannot see, and men who live primitive lives where instinct does the work of reason are fully conscious,of many things we cannot perceive at all. As life becomes more orderly, more deliberate, the supernatural world sinks farther away.

It is so many years before one can believe enough in what one feels even to know what the feeling is

Now that my ladder's gone, I must lie down where all my ladders start, In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.